The Tale of Amroth and Nimrodel
by Jen Littlebottom
Summary: The sad tale of Amroth, last King of Lorien, and Nimrodel. A tragic romance that stretches over two thousand years, from Lorien to the sea...
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer:  All of this belongs to Tolkien, the words alone are mine.

A/N: As always, a big-thank you to my lovely beta, Claudia.

Lórien, Year 3389, of the Second Age:

Amroth winced in sympathy as Haldir came limping back to join him. Celeborn and Galadriel were visting his father in Lórien again, and, as usual, Amdír and Celeborn were using the occasion to show up the young border guards.

"Amroth, your turn. Show yourself worthy of your title, my son."

Haldir didn't even spare him a glance as he sat back down. The eldest son of the First Marchwarden was a good friend, and a better archer, but that polished arrogance that he and his brothers all shared too often became petulance when they were bested.

That might have had something to do, Amroth thought, with the fact that his mother was holding court with Galadriel and her daughter Celebrían near the practice grounds, with what looked like half the female population of Lórien gathered round.

It was apparently Celeborn's turn to embarrass the 'young ones', and with an overly elaborate bow to his smiling wife he hefted his sword, one silver eyebrow arched in challenge. And proceeded to grind Amroth into little pieces.

About an hour later, after finding himself face-down in the dirt for what seemed like the hundredth time, Amroth finally managed to excuse himself. Red faced (for the scores of maidens surrounding his mother and her friends were giggling again), he decided it would probably be wise to wash before dinner.

The main bathing areas were close, but would be crowded – too crowded. Amroth stretched out his aching muscles, one foot tapping absentmindedly. There were some smaller pools a little south – a fair walk, but a little time to lick his wounds would be welcome.

As he got closer to his destination, however, he could hear that his favourite spot was already occupied. Voices were raised in song, accompanied by chatter and laughter. As he entered the clearing, all the voices stopped, as the occupants turned almost as one to glare at Amroth, making him feel like an invader in his own (well, his father's, at least) kingdom. All except one, that was. Perched on the very highest rock, a barefoot maiden sat, eyes closed, feet swinging, singing with apparent disregard for his presence.

"I apologise for my intrusion," Amroth said, using the same Silvan dialect they'd been singing in. Not all in Lórien spoke Sindarin, and a little politeness went a long way, or so his mother always said. "I merely came here to bathe; I meant no harm."

The singer opened her eyes, and leapt from rock to rock until she stood before him. "I am sure you did not. We do not often travel to this part of the Golden Wood." She tilted her head to the side, wide brown eyes examining him. "You are of the Sindar." It was not a question. "What is your name?"

"I am Amroth."

"Nimrodel," she said, turning away.

"That is a river, not a name." Amroth told her, frowning.

"I am surprised you know what a river is, with the state of you," Nimrodel replied, peering back over her shoulder at him. "But it is a name, and a river, and a waterfall, and my home. Farewell, then. We shall leave you to your bathing."

Laughing, Nimrodel and her companions fled the glade. Only one paused, younger than the others and dressed all in grey.

"She lives by the falls from which she takes her name; follow the sound of her song and you will find her."

"Mithrellas!" a voice called from among the mallorn. "Mithrellas, we shall leave without you!"

With a nod at Amroth, Mithrellas, too, disappeared into the trees, leaving Amroth behind, most puzzled. With a sigh, he began to undo his braids, frowning at the amount of dirt in his hair.

-----

He was a little late to dinner, but that was of no matter. The guests were still milling about; Celebrían smiled at him, but was occupied in the company of a dark-haired Elf that Amroth couldn't place. One of the Noldor, obviously, and therefore probably from Imladris; Galadriel and Celeborn visited there almost as often as they did Lórien.

Soon he was pulled into his usual circle of friends, and good-natured teasing and such conversation ensued.

"You missed the archery competition this afternoon," noted Rumil, settling down beside Amroth. The most scholarly of the three brothers, he was also the most even-tempered. He indicated a fuming Haldir. "Tathar beat him. I think we shall not hear the end of this one any time soon."

Amroth grinned. Tathariel was a Silvan girl, of an age with them, and as serious and arrogant as Haldir where archery was concerned. "Really? I wish I had been there."

Rumil nodded. "It was rather entertaining." He looked across the great clearing, frowning when he saw Celebrían's companion. "Do you know why Elrond is here?"

"Elrond? Ai, is that him? I have no idea, Rumil. We have guests from Imladris often enough."

"I think there is more to it than that." Rumil said, looking worried. "I have spoken with messengers from both Imladris and Greenwood – there are rumours, Amroth. Rumours that The Sorcerer was not destroyed when Númenor fell. Black smoke belches from Barad-dûr, and I fear war is coming."

He was interrupted by Orophin, who had taken it upon himself to listen in upon the conversation.

"Rumil, be at peace! You do not have the Sight, brother, so stop worrying Amroth with your dark talk. Instead, let us be merry, for I think our brother may have found himself a wife. If either of them might learn to keep mum for more than a second, it could work out very well."

Amroth had to laugh, for Haldir and Tathariel were arguing again, their voices probably carrying halfway across Lórien. Rumil, however, did not look happy.

"I do not need foresight, little brother, to see a pattern in this darkness."

Orophin shrugged. "Whatever you say, Rumil," he said and waltzed away, probably to irritate Haldir some more.

"Child," muttered Rumil.

"He is not that much younger than you and you know it, Rumil. It is only that he insists on acting half his age – and you insist on acting twice yours." Amroth sipped at a glass of wine he'd managed to acquire in the interlude – how nice it was when other people were the centre of attention.

"I think I will go. I am not hungry."

"Oh, no." Amroth grabbed at Rumil's sleeve. "Do not abandon me to the tender mercies of your brothers. Besides, there is someone I wanted to ask you about."

That made Rumil pause. "Oh? And what is her name?"

"Do not smirk; it is unbecoming. Her name is Nimrodel."

"Ah." Rumil looked thoughtful – always a worrying sign. "Not someone I am familiar with – Silvan, I would think, and from West Lórien, obviously. You know no more?"

"She had a friend… Mithrellas?"

"Ai! Yes, I know. They are from the Westernmost boundaries – Mithrellas is young, maybe two hundred or so, I think. She is always sneaking around watching the archers, although the Silvan Elves of that region do not hunt, and thus think they have no need for bows. I should think you have a lot to do, to win that maiden's heart. Not all of the Silvan care for the rule of the Sindar."

"And who says I wish to win her heart?" asked Amroth, pretending indifference and failing utterly.

"Your eyes betray you, friend. Should I write the epic poem now, or afterwards?"

"You should be silent. Have some respect for your Prince, Rumil," said Amroth, good-naturedly. "Besides," he continued, waving a hand in the general direction of the dinner tables. "I think it's time to eat."

"I must refuse; I shall go wallow in my gloom, as my brother puts it." Rumil clapped one hand on Amroth's shoulder. "And write you your poem, of course. _Her hair is long, her limbs are white, and fair she is, and free, and through the wind she goes as light as leaf of linden-tree!_"

By the last line, Rumil was at the edge of the clearing – that was to say, out of reach. Shaking his head, Amroth took his place at his father's side for dinner, smiling vaguely at the honoured guests. Amdir insisted on mentioning – every one of them – by name.

All of a sudden, he wasn't hungry either.

A/N: Rumil's 'poem' is part of the Song of Nimrodel, which belongs to Tolkien (much like everything else). I changed it into present tense, but otherwise it's pretty much the same.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Second verse, same as the first.

The year 3429, of the second age, Lórien:

Amroth sat at his father's side, bored out of his mind.  He was not made, he had long ago decided, for sitting in council meetings giving out pearls of wisdom and settling disputes.  When he was King, if King he ever became, he would not spend his time sitting around like this.  Surely someone else could do this job?

He tried not to fidget – it was his worst habit.  Even now, one toe was drawing circles in the dirt – he was probably making his shoes very dirty, and his mother would scold him, as if he was still a child.

It wouldn't be so bad if they could hold the council somewhere else.  In a talan, perhaps.  There wasn't one so big, but some of the great mallorn could surely hold a larger structure.  Telain were not to everyone's liking, of course; you had to climb up and down ladders to get to them.  What if you didn't, though?

His mother, watching the proceedings from the other side of the room, coughed gently; Amroth went back to pretending to pay attention, his mind still racing.

You could string a rope ladder sideways, across branches, from tree to tree; the border guards did it all the time.  You could make slightly sturdier bridges too, of wood and rope; there were some that hung across the bathing pools, and children loved to dive from them.

So if you did that with telain; built them close together, put bridges between them; why, you'd hardly need to touch the ground at all! You could…

"Amroth?  The meeting is over."

His father's voice, tinged with amusement.

"I know these things bore you, but you are no longer a child, and it is long past time you learnt the ways of rulers."

"Sorry, father," Amroth said.  "But I cannot imagine you ever going – surely you shall be King forever?"

"Forever?"  Amdir laughed.  "I would not want to be.  But to be serious, my son, you must see that war is looming.  You are too young to remember, but I am not.  It has been twelve _yéni_ now since Sauron was driven back into the east; do not forget your grandsire perished for that cause."

"But the war will not come here.  Lórien's borders are well guarded," Amroth said, with some pride.

"No, it will not come here.  But mayhap we shall go to it.  The mallorn shall be safe, Amroth.  That does not mean we will."

There was an awkward silence, as they walked along the paths of Lórien.  The trees around, the mallorn and linden, bowed gently in the breeze.  A linden-leaf blown awry by the wind landed in Amdir's hair; Amroth picked it up, and remembered.

"Father, am I needed here?  I was thinking of travelling to the west, to visit some friends of mine.

"Of course," said Amdir, cheerfully, and rather missing the point.  "Have I not always encouraged you to learn the ways of the Silvan Elves, even as they learn our ways too?  I would rather you did not go too far up into the mountains though – the dwarves have not been altogether friendly of late."

"I will not go up into the mountains," promised Amroth.  "I will only stay a few months."  Not that Nimrodel would appreciate him staying much longer.

"Tell your mother you are going, and make sure you have enough supplies.  And stay away from the border!  I would prefer it if you did not travel alone.  Is Haldir or one of his brothers around at the moment?"

"No!" said Amroth, hurriedly.  The last thing he wanted was Orophin, or worse, Rumil, along for this trip.  "No," he said again.  "I will be fine, father, and I will keep away from the borders."

"Good."

-----

The falls of Nimrodel were beautiful, the water shimmering under the star-light, making a graceful arc that fell from smooth rocks into the clear pool beneath.

They were also deserted.  Sighing, Amroth dismounted, leaving his steed to munch contentedly at the nearby flora while he tried to work out where Nimrodel had got to.  Straining his ears to hear any trace of song, he discarded his shoes and let his feet drift in the cool water.

He sat there for some time, until an isolated strand of melody reached his ears.  It was, of course, Nimrodel's voice; he would recognise that anywhere.  Picking himself up off the ground, and quickly checking that his horse had not wandered off, as it was wont to do, he headed in the direction of the singing.

"Greetings, dear Nimrodel." he said, emerging from the trees among them.  Mithrellas, predictably, jumped, but Nimrodel just regarded him calmly.

"Why must you insist upon following me around?"

"Why do you insist on acting as if you dislike me so?" he replied, affecting a wounded look.

"Dislike you?  My dear prince, I barely know you."  Her eyes were twinkling, her mouth tipping up at the corners despite herself.

"And to that I would say; I would be _your_ dear prince, would you allow yourself to get to know me."

"And why would I do that?  It has been forty years, and still I am not rid of you.  Go home, Amroth."

Nimrodel's friends were watching this exchange with smiles; this pattern was long established.

"I am afraid I cannot; your beauty compels me to stay, my fair Nimrodel."

She sniffed at that statement.  "Then stay awhile, and sing with us.  But I shall no more be _your_ fair Nimrodel than you shall become Ingwë with the next rising of the sun."

"Of course not.  For that I would need to turn my hair to gold, and 'twould be awfully heavy."

Laughing at that, they walked along the riverside as had become usual for them in the accompanying years, speaking as old friends, singing songs, racing to climb trees and teasing Mithrellas, who was obviously coveting Amroth's bow.

As the sun rose, they found themselves sitting on the rocks overlooking the falls; Amroth was expounding on the idea he'd had during the council meeting, hands moving swiftly through the air, tracing the shapes of imaginary telain and the bridges joining them.

When he paused for breath, she asked him, "Amroth, will there be war soon?"

The sudden change of subject took him aback.  But there was no other answer.

"Yes, my father seems to think so."

"Will you go?"

He hadn't thought about it before, but the words sprang to his lips without thought.

"Of course.  It is my duty."

"As prince," she said.

"As prince."

There was another pause; Nimrodel played with her braids while considering the idea.

"Before the Sindar came," she said.  "There was peace here.  Sometimes I think it would have been better if you stayed in the West."

"The West has fallen into the Sea," Amroth pointed out.  "The home of my grandfather is sunk beneath the waves, and the wars and the dark are not our fault.  There would not have been peace for long, if you did not have Sindar – and Noldor too – to fight your wars for you."

"There was peace," she repeated, and from that opinion she would not be moved.  But a curious thought came to Amroth.

"How old are you?"

"Older than you!" she replied, and at once leapt from the rocks and was running again, singing in bursts, and when he caught up to her at the very foot of the mountains, she was laughing.

They did not speak of war in the weeks that followed.  They sang, and told stories, and he wove for her crowns of flowers, for his 'future queen'.  She gladly wore them in her dark hair, although she would accept neither his kisses nor his promises.

-----

A new year had begun by the time Amroth rode back to greet his father.  There was an air of anticipation; the paths were silent.  The few Elves that were around seemed busy, and spared no time to greet him.

"I am glad you are back soon, and yet not glad."  His father was solemn; his mother, trailing behind, looked as if she had been crying.

"What has happened, father?  Is it…"

"War," Amdir replied.  "We ride to aid the High King, in two days' time."

The world blurred.  Suddenly the airy surroundings of Lórien seemed to close in around him, the mallorn crowding close, almost menacing.

"It is allowed to be afraid, Amroth."

But beyond that, there was a voice raised in song among the linden-trees, dark hair crowned with flowers, laughter under starlight.  Beyond was Nimrodel.

"I am not afraid," he said.  And meant it.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I don't own them, sadly.  *sniffle*

A/N: This is not a real update, I've just made a couple of changes, due to mistakes/problems pointed out by Limyaael.  Thanks.

It was dark, dark, even the starlight obscured by the dark clouds and swirling dust.  Still, Amroth sat on watch, one of many lining the borders of Amdir's small but respectable army, straining both ears and eyes to their limit.

They'd already lost too many.  Seven years they'd laid siege to this accursed place, and they had nothing to show for it.  Amroth absentmindedly traced a scar running across his arm, and shifted position again.  Somewhere behind him, traces of conversation, nervous laughter, suddenly hushed.

There was some stirring in Oropher's forces, encamped but a short distance away.  Perhaps the talks had ended.  Not that anything would have been accomplished.  Amroth had at times attended the meetings with his father, out of curiosity more than anything else, and found they mostly involved a lot of posturing and arguing over who was running the war.

Sure enough, when he cast an eye across the way, he could barely make out what would be Oropher and his son, Thranduil, visible only as two shadowy figures making their way towards the centre tent, accompanied by a few others carrying lanterns.

His father might be a little longer – he was probably tarrying with Galadriel and Celeborn.  Amdir had spent much of the war trying to mend things between the two; Celeborn was not happy that his wife was here, although she was older than him, and, or so Amroth had heard through gossip, actually the better fighter.

He wondered why she had never taken part in the practices in Lórien; but whatever her reasons, her mere presence was a source of comfort to many among the Last Alliance. Daughter of Finarfin, sister of Finrod, one of the last Elves remaining in Middle-earth who had seen the light of the Trees.

It wasn't much comfort at the moment to Amroth.  It was cold, and the icy winds brought with them the stinking, fetid marsh air, a smell like rot, like the grave.  When he was relieved from watch he almost did not know what to do.  What else was there, but watch, but wait?  Instead he headed for his father's tent, hoping he had returned by this time.

Amdir looked tired, bone-weary.  Not for the first time since the war started, Amroth saw the sea-longing on his face, clear as day.  The King of Lórien was fading, and Amroth was beginning to realise that, whatever the outcome of this war, his days as mere prince were numbered.

For surely his mother would follow his father wherever he went.  She was far away now, holding Lórien together in the absence of its lords, the barest defences left behind.  Amroth thought of Nimrodel, who would refuse to follow him so much as across a stream, and sighed.  The linden-leaves he'd taken with him, a reminder of Lórien, were long since gone.  Only memories remained.

His father saw him, standing there, waiting, but it took a few seconds for him to focus on his son.

"Oh.  There you are."

"Where else would I be, father?"

"At home with your mother, safe under the mallorn.  I know what we are doing is right, that the blood we give to this cause is well spent, and yet I have no heart for war.  No longer."

"Father…"

Amdir looked up, sharply.  "I wish to be alone, son."

Amroth nodded, and made his way over to where Haldir and Orophin sat with some of the other archers, few words being spoken, and then only softly, while busy hands fletched or repaired arrows as best they could in the dark.  A few nods were his greeting; he too busied himself with this work.  Waiting for the time to pass; waiting for the battle to begin.

  
Later, he would curse himself for so much as thinking that.

The attack came in the dead of night; the scouts nearest Oropher's army saw it first, a black snake of the enemy, weaving its way towards them.  By now they were used to attack, and well trained; the formations came together without thought, and the bows of Lórien sang, ever deadly.  

Amroth, having taken up his sword, was near the forefront.  Time moved in bursts, in swings and parries.  Hot pain across his shoulder, but no time to think of it.  Just move on, move on, as an arrow from someone, somewhere, skewered the beast responsible.

It took a little while before they realised what was happening, and by then it was too late.  Even as the initial attack began to falter, their kin assisting from the other side, the secondary attacks began, wave after wave of attackers, first driving a wedge between the hosts of Lórien and Greenwood, driving Amdir's forces back towards the marshes.

Then another group came up from the south, coming at the archers from the side, from behind.  The world narrowed.  Keep going, keep going, the taste of his own blood on his tongue.  The ground was hazardous, the marshes gripping at the feet, trying to claim him, littered with bodies.  Some of those bodies had been friends, but there was no time to think of that either.

When the sun rose, and the enemy was finally driven back, full half of what had been the army of Lórien lay dead, and of those that yet lived, most were badly injured.  Amroth wiped his sword, tried to stand up, and almost failed.  A little away, another Elf groaned, the bright flash of bone visible on his wounded leg.  Amroth did not know his name, or did not remember, but he helped him up, the two of them slowly making their way to the area where the living seemed to be congregating.

One of his father's advisors was there, holding something.  Someone took the injured Elf away from him, the dead weight being lifted out of his hands.  The advisors name was Laerndil, he remembered.  It was good to be able to remember something.  He stumbled forward, searching for familiar faces.  What was Laerndil holding?  Where was his father?

Wait, one second, and focus.  The thing, shimmering in Laerndil's hands, gold and mithril, shaped as mallorn leaves.  His father's crown.  But his father was not there, and Laerndil held it reverently out to Amroth, sadness in his eyes, and Amroth knew.

It was not as heavy as it looked.  He had tried it on, once before, when he was a child, and it slipped down over his forehead, but even then it had been airy-light, of course, for it was dwarf-make, and as heavy as the steps of that people may be, their stumpy hands can coax metal into doing their bidding the way only the Mirdain of Eregion ever came near to.

When he spoke, his voice was surprisingly steady.

"Anyone who can stand, help the healers.  Bind the wounds as best you can; we have no time to tarry.  We head back towards the main force, to join with Oropher, as soon as we are able."

His throat was dry, and the next words came out reluctantly.

"We leave the dead."

Laerndil looked shocked.  "Sire…"

"There is no time.  When night falls they may attack again."

Later he would not remember how they had managed.  A pitiful party, a straggling trail of Elves carrying the wounded, starving, the healers among them doing the best they could, as more and more succumbed to orc-poisons.  Amroth stopped counting the numbers of the dead, stopped counting the days, stopped counting his faltering steps.  At night they stopped briefly, a vague attempt to rest while those still strong enough to hold their bows stood at watch, the precious few remaining arrows close at hand.

The nights were probably the worst.

Amroth's shoulder was not poisoned, but the wound festered, preventing him from joining the archers.  He spent most of the time looking after Orophin; a fever had overcome Rumil, and Haldir, Haldir who hardly spoke anymore, spent his time among those guarding, stalking up and down the length of the camp each night like a restless ghost.  Their father had fallen, somewhere in that mire, but that was not the only reason for Haldir's silence.

It was from Rumil, briefly lucid, that Amroth and Orophin found out Tathar was dead.

They dragged themselves back over the wastelands, back to join their kin, and when they got there they found the battle already won, or at least in part.  Sauron was gone, but not forever, and the price had been too high to even think about.  Gil-Galad, Oropher, Amdir, Elendil; the blood of Kings had bought this victory.

And now it was time for another King to return home.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: As usual, the world belongs to Tolkien, the words alone are mine.

Through Lórien the song went.  It wrapped itself around the mellryn, threads of melody rustling the golden leaves.  It slipped through the undergrowth, it lingered upon the petals of elanor.  The creatures of the wood fell silent when it passed; even the stars, it seemed, dimmed their lights in reverence. 

It lasted three years, and they did not let the song fail.  Each time one voice fell silent, of sorrow or exhaustion, there was another to take its place.  They sang of family, friends, and strangers who might have been friends, were they not lost.  They sang of a fallen King, and a new King risen.

Now, as the song drew to an end, they sang of a Queen.

She was beautiful, all dressed in cloth of silver; her crown was woven of niphredil, and bouquets of elanor and alfirin were laid about her feet.  Nimrodel came at night, as Amroth sat waiting.  For him she brought a wreath of golden water-lilies, stolen from the river.  For tonight they mourned Ningloriel, wife of Amdir, Queen of Lórien.

Neither spoke, but she stayed there for a while, her hand on his shoulder, his head bowed in silent prayer.  While the stars lasted, Nimrodel was at his side, and he knew peace.  But when dawn came, she was gone, only the scent of linden-leaves remaining.

-----

The years passed.  Amroth ruled with a mild but firm hand, in the manner of his father, and the people of Lórien turned inwards.  Seldom now did they hear of the world of men, except for stories brought from Imladris or the Greenwood.  It was after Galadriel's daughter's daughter had come to Lorien for the first time, to dance with chubby infant feet on the grass in front of Cerin Amroth, that she returned.

So long had it been, he at first thought her a dream, and the words came uneasily to his tongue, as used as he was now to all around him speaking Sindarin.

"Why have you come back?" he asked, for it seemed she only delighted in tormenting him.

"I came to see the King," she said.  As usual, her only ornaments were the flowers of the wood and the light of the stars.  He had the sudden feeling, as sharp and painful as an arrow wound, that it would indeed be wrong to pursue her further.  To chain his love with a crown of mithril, to bind her to him here, away from her home by the river.

But she loved him, and he knew it, and that made it all the harder.

"And here sits the King," he replied, "an Elf like any other."

If Nimrodel disagreed with that statement, she choose not to comment. 

"And if here sits the King, then where is the Queen?"

"Perhaps she stands in front of me, her beauty only eclipsed by the Valier themselves."

She laughed, hair falling across her face.  But when she spoke again she was solemn, her words perilously final.

"There is no Queen here, Amroth.  I cannot, and will not, wear that crown for you."

"Then there shall be no Queen at all, and the line of Kings shall end with me."

"But Lorien shall continue," she pointed out, "as it did before your coming, it shall last beyond your going.  The Golden Wood is older than any of us, and shall be here far longer than the Sindar, and their wars and sorrows."

He stood, slowly.  Anger and love warred within him.  How could she know him so well, love him, and yet not understand?

"Do not be so quick to dismiss the Sindar.  I have lost friends, lost kin, in battle; my sorrows come from the wars fought to protect this wood--to protect you, Nimrodel.  What would you have done, had the enemy come here?  Would you drive the yrch back with your songs alone?"

"Perhaps," she replied, still serene.  "I would rather you had stayed here, and your kin, and your friends.  Why ride to fight battles that are not your own?  For the folly of Men you went to war, and by the folly of Men the evil lingers yet."

"You would make me a coward?" he asked.  "You forget, my grandfather fled from Doriath when it fell.  How many more here have been touched by war?  Why did you think my father took in the refugees from Eregion?  Not out of pity, but out of kinship.  We cannot, and will not, stand aside."

She bowed her head, a snippet of song falling from her lips, a lament.  "Then you shall lead them to their deaths, as your father did, when the time comes?"

"You need not remind me of that; after all, I led them back.  But my father made the choice, and I feel it was the right one."

"And you would blindly follow in his footsteps?"

Amroth shook his head.  "Nay, not blindly.  Love is blind, Nimrodel.  Beyond sense, beyond logic.  But if we must go to war again I will go my eyes open, a song on my lips and a lament in my heart.  I pray to Elbereth that such a thing never comes to pass. But in the end, it is out of my control, do you not think?"

"I agree," she said.  "Love is blind."

"And to the rest?"

But she was gone.


	5. Chapter 5

"Reports from the northern patrols, my King."  Rumil tilted his head, examining Amroth.  It was late afternoon, and the hot summer sun was relentless in its intensity.  Any respectable Elf would be resting now, safe in the shade of the talan, singing, or weaving, or telling tall tales to the children.  Only Amroth would still be working at this hour – and making Rumil do so as well.

"Thank you," the King replied, not looking up.

"You know, Amroth, I wrote a good third of that epic poem of yours."

"Your point?"

Rumil curled one braid around his finger.  "I cannot write any more, if I do not know how it ends."

"Thank you for the reports, Rumil."

The Galadhrim paused for a second, considering.  Then he swiftly settled himself in a chair usually reserved for one of Amroth's counsellors, and slipped his feet up onto the ornately carved table.

Amroth glared at him over the top of a thick sheaf of paper.

"I thought I asked you to leave?"  
  


"Technically," replied Rumil, wagging a finger at him, "you merely hinted that my presence was no longer welcome."

"So why did you not?"

"Why did I not what?"

"Why did you not leave?  Rumil, I am not in the mood for your jokes.  Please, find something else to do."

"Such as?" came the soft reply.  "I suppose I could watch my older brother at patrol, barely resting, barely speaking, in some self-imposed penance for the loss of his love.  I could watch the guilt tear him up because he could not admit his feelings until it was too late.  I could watch my younger brother, too.  I could watch, as each day goes on, him shut himself away from the world, like Haldir does, because he thinks it is the only way to cope.  Because he fears to love.  Or I could come talk to my friend, who was, after all, my friend long before he was my king, because I believe he is making a fool of himself for no good reason."

"Trust me," said Amroth.  "I have my reasons."

Rumil shrugged.  "And you are king.  But that does that mean she must be queen?  Can you marry her but not crown her, love her but set her free?"

"You speak in riddles, Rumil, and of things you know nothing about," snapped Amroth.  "Let me be."

"I know more than you might think."  In Rumil's outstretched palm Amroth saw, for a second, a glimmering piece of silver, a trinket of the sort given from one love to another, before it was snatched away, tucked back into whatever pocket it had been hiding in.

"She went west, after the wars.  She lost her family, and the sea called her home."  Rumil smiled sadly.  "I blame her not.  She will await me in Aman.  But will you wait as long as I will, Amroth?  Or, to be more direct, must you?"

Amroth finally managed to choke out a few words.  "I… I did not know, Rumil, I am sorry…"

Rumil shook his head.  "Do not be."  He swung his feet off the table and stood, in one smooth motion.  "I should probably leave."

He was half-way across the talan before Amroth thought of the right words.

"Thank you."

There was a feral glint in Rumil's smile.  "Think nothing of it.  After all, I am the smartest of my mother's sons."

With a laugh, he prepared to leave, but not before once more regaling Amroth with a little more of his 'epic poem':

_"Beside the falls of Nimrodel,  
By water clear and cool,  
Her voice as falling silver fell  
Into the shining pool."_

This time, however, he was not quick enough.  Amroth's aim with an apple was as good as it had been when he was a child, and Rumil yelped and fled.

He did take the apple with him, though.

-----

The falls were the same, silver under starlight.  As was Nimrodel, ever the same.  So long had it been since he had seen her in the light of day – indeed, since that first chance meeting she had always come to him at night – that he wondered, briefly, if she would vanish in full light, like a dream, like a ghost.

"Why do you come to me again, my King?"

He sighed, wrapping his arms around himself.  "Yours and not yours, although I do not ask you to be Queen.  Merely to love me; is that too much to ask?"

"I do love you."  The declaration was punctuated with a soft kiss upon his cheek.  She settled her head upon his shoulder, strands of her hair falling down to tickle his arm.  "But you are King, Amroth.  That changes things."

"I do not see how."  Abruptly he stood, and leapt lightly up onto the stones beside the falls, cool beneath his feet.  "What are you afraid of?"

For a moment she was silent.  The answer came softly, gently.  "I am afraid my son would be to much like his father, that you would lead him into war."

"My son would be a prince.  Would you keep him from his duty?"

"You think I do not understand.  You forget, Amroth.  I was here before you.  I remember when the darkness crept in from the East, yet we survived.  Without your blades, or your wars.  We had bows yet, and rocks, and then fists and feet.  We would have fought until the end, had you not come."

"And I wonder what that end would have been?" replied Amroth.  "Sticks and stones against the armies of Mordor?"

She smiled.  "Sticks and stones and song and sorrow.  I was a queen once.  They crowned me with heather, under the stars of spring, because for a moment my songs were more pleasing than any other.  But come midsummer next there would be another— another King, another Queen."

"You never said…"

"It was not the same.  We did not have the words for it.  We were all Kings and Queens, and we crowned each other with wildflowers in spring, green leaves in summer, red berries in the autumn and in winter left our heads bare, for that was the way it had ever been.  Who will remember, when I am gone?  The world changes, and come midsummer young Mithrellas will be dancing with the Galadhrim, singing in Sindarin, forgetting the old ways."

"I would never…"

"You would never mean to, and that would make it worse.  But I shall remain, speaking the old tongues, singing the old songs under starlight.  I will keep faith, Amroth.  And that means I must let you go."

He shook his head.  "This task, this crown, has been appointed to me.  I must keep faith also, Nimrodel."

"I do not ask you to break faith."

"No, you merely break my heart."  He turned away, and leapt from the rocks, running along the shores of the river Nimrodel.

"Amroth!"

But he did not heed her call, and, tears falling freely, ran through the woods, night and day, until he fell exhausted upon the mound of Cerin Amroth.  He wept under starlight, but when the sun rose again, he was King, and made whole.  If Rumil guessed, he bit his tongue, and Amroth did not speak of Nimrodel.  Nor would he see her again, till the Dwarf-Bane woke in Moria.


End file.
